Nancy Merrill is hosting a photo challenge. The theme this week – Rule of Thirds
The rule of thirds is a standard photographers use to frame their images. You divide the frame into a grid of three across and three down, and then don’t put your subject in the middle square. It’s also best if you can put the focus of your image on one of the grid lines.
IN A NEW POST CREATED FOR THIS CHALLENGE, SHARE A PHOTO OR TWO (OR MORE) USING THE RULE OF THIRDS.
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I look outside the second floor window of my condo.
And what do I see through the trees and power lines?
Cars & trucks speeding by – east and west – on a state highway.
A toddler would be mesmerized.
I am getting used to it.
I fondly remember looking out the dining room window of my former home…discovering Spring surprises that had seemingly sprouted overnight. Peeking out amongst the rhododendrons…or along the side yard squeezing in between the ever-spreading irises.
There was never a good reason to pass on a photo opportunity….
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #45: Anniversary
…pick a date (not necessarily a date of traditional significance) and look back.
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In some places the leaves were just starting to change colors.
The day my friend Becky died. On September 18, 1999.
It will soon be the anniversary of that date.
Twenty years since the woman who was my close friend for over 20 years…and partner in crime at work…left this world.
After 6 years of fighting the fast growing cells that had already spread to her lymph nodes. Discovered after a radical mastectomy in 1993.
She refused a wig and a prosthesis…too much trouble, she said. I willbeat this.
She was 40 years old.
Chemotherapy. Physical Therapy. Radiation. Repeat.
Intermittent remission.
Until there wasn’t.
I’ve watched friends die of breast cancer. I guess I can do it too. She announced one evening…looking at me over her half-eaten plate of scallops and mixed vegetables. As we sat together at our favorite Chinese restaurant.
I stared at her. Speechless. But Becky always got right to the point.
She continued…You know, life is hard if what you want is pure enjoyment.
It would be one of our last dinners out. Before we switched to meeting for breakfast. When she had a bit more energy and had shifted to part time work.
By early September 1999, she was admitted to a local hospital for the last time. Coincidentally I had started working there again the year before. Where we had worked as side-by-side dietitians 20 years earlier. Before our first children were born within weeks of each other. And we began sharing the joys, fears and trials of motherhood and marriage. No subject off limits.
I slipped into her hospital room. Becky it’s me.
With her eyes closed, she asked about my 17 year old daughter thinking she was still 12. Her husband stood nearby…looked at me and shook his head.
There is nothing they can do, he said. It’s in her liver. She’s in kidney failure. Too late for the new drug study.
He may move her to a rehab place for pain management.
What about hospice? In your home? I asked. I hadn’t thought of that, he answered.
That was where I spent my last hours with Becky. Beside the hospital bed set up in her living room. Between two bright windows…the September early morning sun peeking in at us.
No coffee. No muffins. No Chinese food or wine this time.
I pulled up a chair. Reached in between the metal rails and held her left hand in mine. The head of the bed up. Her face turned in my direction…eyes shut. Corners of her mouth turned down.
Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Her mouth opened slightly with each breath.
Her hair was just starting to grow back again. Wispy buzz cut style.
Her hand was cool and smooth as I laced her fingers between mine. We were alone. It was quiet. A slight breeze blew in through the open windows.
Her leg twitched. Her arms jerked upward a bit.
I whispered in her ear…Are you cold?
Turning slightly toward me she murmured…No I leaned closer and whispered back…You always were a hot number. I saw a tiny crooked smile.
Her eyes opened slightly. Looked at me for an instant, their blueness in stark contrast to her colorless skin. What is it? I ask.
But she can’t tell me.
I picked her hand up again and held it between both of mine.
Her large gray cat stepped over my feet. I felt its softness brush against my leg. I don’t like cats much. Never have. She had always teased me about it. I leaned close and whispered…Somehow this big cat got in here. A hint of a smile…and she mumbled Be nice to the kitty. It’s a nice kitty.
It was late morning. I was still holding her hand. She shifted in bed. Sighed. Sighed again.
Breathe in. Breathe out. I stopped counting. Becky do you remember that time when we tried to get a picture of the kids sitting on your couch? They were about 6 months old. We’d get them settled and then by the time we’d step back to snap the picture they would both slide sideways on top of each other? And they’d start to cry? And we’d prop them back up again?
A faint smile came and went. I squeezed her hand.
The front door opened and closed.
The hospice nurse had arrived.
To care for my friend Becky. Wash her. Make her comfortable. Ease her pain.
I bent down to kiss Becky on the cheek, feeling the soft coolness of her skin. I love you Becky. I hope she heard me. But even if she didn’t, I knew she knew.
The next morning I picked up the ringing phone.
Her husband’s shaky voice… Becky died this morning. She was 47 years old.
Even now – years later – I catch myself thinking I have spotted her in the grocery story parking lot. But of course I didn’t.
Becky’s place in my heart is rooted deep.
The epitome of strength and love and loyalty.
And what a fighter.
She loved her family and her friends and her God.
I am privileged and grateful to have known her.
I’m a stronger person for it.
And a better friend.
She will soar into my conscious thought at random times…cheering me with her signature humor. Triggering a memory of times past.
And our life adventures together.
Cut far too short.
Reminding me…of the precious gift that friendship truly is.
San Diego, California is one of my favorite places to visit. Especially in March, when it is cold (and often snowy) at home…in New England.
Too often…by that time of year…enough is enough.
Although I haven’t returned since 2006, I think of my own little festive piece of paradise often.
Warm sun. Sandy beaches. Friendly people. Delicious food. A true vacation.
In fact, we loved it so much, we visited twice one year.
In June, 2000 we went with our two children. Ages 18 and 12 at the time. It was one of our last family vacations…for just the four of us.
One of the highlights of our week away was a day trip to the Del Mar Fair…now called the San Diego County Fair. The longest midway I’d ever seen. Games of chance. Farm animal exhibits. Pig races. Carnival rides. Crafts. Dozens of commercial vendors selling everything from license plate holders to tomato slicers to “Smart Nails.” Everything As Seen On TV and more.
Entertainment was nonstop throughout the day…including an evening Little Richard concert. And the food? Oh my goodness – my first taste of sweet potato fries with a ranch dressing dip. Who knew?
Easter Sunday was for dressing up…when I was young: “fancy” pastel colored dress, white socks and black patent leather shoes.
And a hat. An Easter Bonnet type of hat. The kind your mother wrapped in tissue and stored carefully in a cardboard “hat box.” Whisked away from your sticky little hands and tucked on a shelf, safe until the next holiday. They were often made of straw… decorated with artificial flowers. Secured on your head with a ribbon or scratchy elastic band.
I was never a dress-up kind of girl. My hat was much simpler than my sister’s…and was usually perched askew on my head. I actually kind of liked it. Simple. Primary colors.
Along with the hat came a “Spring Coat.” Also only worn for Easter and going to church. Maybe Mother’s Day. Not real comfortable for playing outside; which was my preference. But easier to wear than the dreaded itchy wool “Winter Coat.”
One Easter – when I was 5 and my sister was 3 – we needed to pose for a photo on the new backyard swing. Complete with our traditional Easter outfits. I’m in the red coat. She’s in the yellow one.
Apparently it took a few minutes to get seated…
This Easter tradition continued for a few years with my daughter, who at 5, was also in the spirit…with a hat passed down from one of her aunts.
My daughter – age 5
Happy Memories.
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This morning at church, I noticed children in their Easter finery…including one white straw hat.
In our house, while raising our children, coloring hard boiled eggs was an Easter tradition.
As it was when I was growing up…
At the kitchen table.
The smell of vinegar in the air.
Easter as a child: the anticipation…first the eggs. Then the wait for Easter morning and the hunt for hidden baskets. Chocolate bunnies! Jelly beans! Marshmallow Peeps!
The same wire holders. Newspapers spread out to catch the inevitable drips.
Tiny color pellets – one for each custard cup (in my childhood) – teacup (for my kids). Dissolving into what seemed like magical colors. Dip the egg in quick or let it soak. Or maybe dip in halfway. Turn it over and try a different color for the other half. This took practice.
Mastering the balancing act…without dropping the egg on the floor…an Easter rite of passage…
My daughter and son…each at 3 years old…experts!
Ages 10 and 4 – Go Team!
Last year around this time, I wrote a post about Easter.
I described my favorite book from childhood…featuring Easter eggs and the Easter bunny…who overslept.
The sweetest story…
And the illustrations…sigh.
Well worth mentioning again.
If you want to check it out…Almost Easter 2018
When my daughter was 10 months old, we brought her with us to the Christmas Eve service at the local First Congregational Church. In the town we had moved to a few years earlier. She sat on our laps, quietly eating Cheerios, entranced by the other people…the organ music…the choirs…the candlelight. A few months later she was baptized in this same church. We became members and six years later her brother was baptized there as well.
We attended worship services as a family throughout their childhoods. Making friends at Sunday School. Children’s choir. High School Youth Group. Mission trips. Holiday fairs. Christmas pageants. Church dinners. They grew up knowing a church family as well as their own. Who watched them change from toddlers who raced around during coffee hour…to poised young adults speaking from the lectern.
When a new baby is born into a church member’s family, a celebratory rose is placed on the chancel rail in the sanctuary.
Three years ago a rose was displayed…to celebrate the birth of our grandson…
One bright sunny Sunday morning…near the spot…
where his mother was baptized over 30 years before.
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #44: Numerology
Did you notice the unit number?
Yes, I did.
Well?
…I’m going to let it go.
…and that was that. My husband could exhale.
The 3 digit unit number for our potential new condo added up to 13. A possible deal breaker. Theoretically. Based on past history. I won’t even book plane seats in row 13.
I hold fast to the significance of there being almost exactly 3 months between the birth dates of my husband, my 2 children and myself. And that my birth date involves multiples of the same number. The symmetry of their birth date numbers (all containing an 8) offers a strange comfort…which I have never questioned.
I was the first child of 5, born into a family of 7. Odd numbers. Still pondering that.
When bad things happen, I’m not surprised when the 3rd follows the first 2.
Even – rather than odd – numbers just make more sense. After all, you have 10 fingers. 10 toes. 2 hands. And so on. At least that’s the plan, if you’re born lucky.
Using V.J.’s link, I looked up my life path number. Which turned out to be 7. The personality traits, according to the Numerology theory…are surprisingly (or not so surprisingly…) spot on for the most part. Especially the part about “always looking for the answers….”
When we bought our first home in 1980 and realized the house number matched what had been our first apartment number, I knew it was meant to be. And it was.
However…36 years later…in 2016…I could not make the rest of our lives contingent on such things as…numbers. And, one might say, superstition.
Fortunately the square footage numbers added up to 17.
one letter UP ~ diary 2.0 